I hadn’t been for a ride in weeks, and I could hear that the bike’s engine needed a tune-up. It was misfiring badly, so I shut it off and tried Frank’s instead.
I wasn’t worried about the kid on the bicycle getting a head start. Our motorcycles have enough power to catch a race car, let alone a ten-speed. By the way, they’re also tricked out like nobody’s business with every awesome feature you could ever dream of—not because we’re brats, mind you. We use our bikes in crime fighting all the time, so we’ve got to have the latest and greatest technology.
The fact that they’re also mad fun has absolutely nothing to do with it.
Anyway, I was just pulling out of the garage and into the driveway when Frank caught up to me. “Hey, Joe!” he yelled. “Wait!”
I held up my hand and tried to explain. “Mine needs a tune-up,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring it back as soon as I’ve dusted off that jerk who threw the rock through your window.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Frank said. “It wasn’t a rock!”
“Huh?”
He held up a package. It was addressed “Frank and Joe Hardy—open immediately, FYEO.” (That means “For Your Eyes Only”—but you knew that ’cause of James Bond, right?)
“Are you kidding me?” I said, shutting off the bike’s engine.
“Nope. It’s gotta be from ATAC.”
I shook my head in amazement. “You know, just once, those guys could deliver our next case in the regular mail.”
3.
An Engraved Invitation
We raced back into the house and up the stairs, passing Aunt Trudy and Playback on the way. “My goodness!” she said, backing up against the wall. “What woke you two up?”
Apparently she hadn’t heard the glass of Frank’s bedroom window shattering. Probably because Playback was squawking in her ear.
“No worries, Aunt Trudy,” I said, running past her.
We locked the door of Frank’s room behind us and ripped open the package. Inside it we found a video game CD labeled “Deadly Diamonds.”
Joe and I looked at each other. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he said.
“Nah, that would be too good to be true,” I said, popping the CD into our video game system and flicking on the monitor.
The machine booted up, and while it did, I examined the rest of the package. There wasn’t much inside—none of the usual extra cash, credit cards, or high-tech gadgets we usually get at the beginning of a case. Just two laminated passes with our names and pictures on them, marked CONVENTION CENTER SECURITY: ACCESS ALL AREAS.
Convention center? Could it really be . . .?
Sure enough, a wide shot of the brand-new Bayport Convention Center flashed on the monitor’s screen, accompanied by the soothing, mellow voice of Q, our boss at ATAC.
“Hello, Frank and Joe,” he said, “and welcome back from your successful stay in Paris. Sorry to bother you again on such short notice, but I’m afraid something’s come up, and you’re the nearest agents to hand.
“I’m sure that, as natives of Bayport, you’re familiar with the marvelous new convention center that opened in January. I don’t know if you’ve been there before, but if not, you’re going to get your chance now.”
The picture on the screen changed to a montage shot of tons of diamonds. We saw diamonds in the rough, diamonds after being cut, diamonds set in gold, on necklaces and bracelets, in earrings and engagement rings and belly-button rings. Big diamonds. Some as big as the thumb of the person holding it for the picture.
“The International Diamond Jewelry Show and Auction is scheduled to run at the convention center this coming weekend,” Q explained. “It will feature several pieces valued at over ten million dollars apiece, with a total value upwards of two hundred million. What’s more, the jewels will be worn by a pair of well-known supermodels whom . . . ahem . . . I’m sure you’ve heard of: Naomi Dowd and Shakira.”
I looked over at Joe, who looked back at me with a smile so big you’d think he’d just won one of those diamonds.
“The reason we’ve brought you in is that Interpol has intercepted some very troubling e-mail communications indicating that there may be an attempt to steal some, or even all, of the jewels at the show.”
“And there’s our cue,” Joe said.
“Seeing how the models involved are only slightly older than yourselves,” Q continued, “and how you’re conveniently located right there in Bayport, we at ATAC thought it would be prudent to place you on the inside, with the job of shadowing the two models. I’m . . . ahem . . . sure you won’t object when I tell you that you’re to stick with them as closely as possible. To that end, we’ve issued you full-clearance security passes, as you’ve no doubt already discovered.”
“No doubt,” Joe echoed, fingering his pass lovingly.
“And now,” Q continued, “let me give you a little background on the e-mails we’ve received, and on the diamonds in question. First, the diamonds: They are part of an illegal shipment captured last year by Interpol agents as they were being sent to Antwerp, the world’s major center for diamond cutting and selling. The shipment was traced back to the Philippine island of Jolo, home base of a guerrilla/terrorist movement led by a warlord named Carlos Sanguillen.”
“Never heard of him,” Joe said.
“Shhh,” I said. “Just listen, will you?”
“Sanguillen is known for his brutal tactics—murder of innocent civilians, terror, kidnappings—and for using illegally mined diamonds to finance his operations. We know the diamonds in question were illegally mined, because they lacked the identifying numbers micro-etched in all legal diamonds worldwide since 2004. These identifying numbers are invisible to the naked eye, but can be quite plainly seen under any household microscope.
“Having taken possession of the diamonds, Interpol decided to have them fashioned into jewelry by some of the world’s leading designers and auctioned off at a high-profile show, with all proceeds going to benefit the victims of Sanguillen’s terror. That show is the one you’ll be attending, boys. All for a good cause, as it were.”
“But?” Joe prompted.
“But,” Q responded, “that brings us to the e-mails. They were intercepted over the last three weeks, beginning the day after the Bayport Convention Center was chosen for the show. They indicate that mobsters based in Atlantic City, New Jersey—and specifically a high-ranking mobster by the name of Shakey Twist—may be planning to pull off a spectacular heist at the show itself.”
The screen showed the mug shot of a truly vile-looking guy, with a pencil-thin mustache, a scar across his left cheek, and a snarling expression that made us lean back, away from the screen.
“Twist has been tried for murder six times, for grand larceny over a dozen times, and for various other offenses as well, but he has never been convicted of anything more serious than jaywalking. Obviously, he has ways of swaying juries—or even judges—that we haven’t been able to pinpoint.”
The picture of Twist was replaced by that of another thuggish-looking guy, this one darker skinned, more heavily mustached, and even more evil looking, if that was possible. The caption under his face read: “Carlos Sanguillen.”
“The e-mails also indicate that Sanguillen himself may be a part of the plot. Interpol was tracking his movements until last week, when they lost him at the airport in Antwerp. They’re afraid, and so are we, that both he and Twist may show up in Bayport on the day of the show, with lots of heavily armed backup.
“Naturally, security will be as tight as a drum. The convention center’s perimeter will be guarded by dozens of security personnel, including FBI, Bayport police, and private security guards.
“And the convention center’s security is also top-notch. When you arrive there on the morning of the show next Saturday, you’ll be given a complete tour of their systems by the security chief, Hal Harris. He’s already been advised of your presence and told to keep your association wit
h ATAC to himself. Let’s hope he does.”
“Definitely,” I said. Letting word slip that we were with ATAC was not an option.
“Naturally, there’ll be a large, well-off audience present at the convention center to bid on the jewelry pieces,” Q went on. “Be aware, boys, that they, too, may present a tempting target for the likes of Twist, Sanguillen, and their henchmen—whose identities are largely still unknown to us.
“What we’re most afraid of is that this will be an inside job. And that’s where you two come in. Your assignment: Uncover the plot and prevent the theft before it happens—and while you’re at it, keep those two supermodels safe from harm.”
“Yessir!” Joe said, saluting the screen with a great big smile.
“As usual,” Q finished, “this CD will self-erase in five seconds. Good luck, boys.”
There was a hissing sound, and the screen went blank. Q’s voice was replaced with a blaring song by Freaks of Nature, one of our favorite bands.
“Warlords? Diamonds? Supermodels?” Joe shouted over the blasting music. “Dude, we are so there!”
4.
We Take the Grand Tour
It was a really hard week at school. It was hard to concentrate knowing that in a few days we’d be hanging out with Naomi Dowd and Shakira. I just about flunked a history test, and Frank didn’t do much better. Good thing it wasn’t finals week.
The worst part was, we couldn’t talk about any of it to anyone—not even our best friends! (When I say that ATAC is supersecret, I do mean supersecret.) But our friends Chet and Iola knew something was up by the way we were acting. Usually Frank and I are pretty chill, but that week we were like a pair of Mexican jumping beans.
I got a really expensive haircut on Friday afternoon, so that I’d look good for our crime fighting. Normally I didn’t care, but . . . okay, I always care. But this time it was really important!
As I lay in bed Friday night, I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like, meeting and hanging out with a pair of supermodels. I couldn’t decide which one was more gorgeous—Naomi or Shakira.
I tried to picture myself taking one or the other of them out to dinner, but I couldn’t see it—me, sitting across the table from Naomi, or reaching across it to take Shakira’s hand, gazing into their gorgeous eyes? I wouldn’t know what to say!
Finally I got to sleep—only to be jerked awake by my insanely annoying alarm at 10 a.m. I got up, hit the alarm clock until it stopped, and checked myself out in the mirror.
Oh, no—was that a zit coming on? It couldn’t be! Not now!
This was so unlike me. Usually, it’s Frank who makes a geek out of himself over pretty girls—but then, Naomi Dowd and Shakira were not just your average girls next door.
I smacked myself on both sides of the face, saying, “Get a grip, Joe,” into the mirror. Then I took a shower, got dressed, and went downstairs.
Aunt Trudy was there, hovering over Frank, who was sitting at the breakfast table looking tired and glum. “I don’t know what’s the matter with your brother,” she said to me. “He usually has such a good appetite in the mornings.”
“I’m not hungry either.” It was true—I couldn’t have held food down if I tried. I was way too nervous.
“My goodness!” Trudy said. “I think you two had better see the doctor—I can’t ever remember you both being uninterested in food.”
“Is Dad up yet?” I asked.
“He had to go out early this morning,” Aunt Trudy said. “Something about that show over at the convention center.”
So Dad was involved too. That meant the police were expecting big trouble.
“And your mother’s off at the library, doing inventory.”
Our mom is the head of the Bayport library system—she’s supersmart and knows a lot about a million different subjects. But she knows nothing about our involvement with ATAC, and neither does Aunt Trudy. Just Dad.
“Well, we’d better be going,” Frank said, getting up from the table. “Joe? Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I answered.
“And where are you two off to?” Aunt Trudy asked.
“We’re going to see the show at the convention center, Aunt Trudy,” Frank explained. “It’s the biggest thing to hit Bayport in years, haven’t you heard?”
He gave her a smile and a quick peck on the cheek, and Trudy calmed down. I had to hand it to him—the man was slick.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire!” Playback shouted after him as we left. “Pretty bird! Pretty bird!”
Playback, apparently, wasn’t feeling as calm as Trudy.
Frank gritted his teeth. “How does he always know?” he asked me as we hit the garage and got on Frank’s bike. I had to ride with him, because I’d brought mine to the shop for a quick, morning tune-up.
“Maybe he reads the paper when you’re not looking,” I said.
“You know,” he said, gunning the engine, “I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.”
The Bayport Convention Center was designed by a world-famous architect. It’s awesome. It looks like this shining metal meteorite sitting on the edge of the bay. Since it opened up, it’s been booked with one big convention or show after another.
But this diamond show to benefit the victims of violence in the Third World was the biggest event yet, by far. The number of security personnel ringing the convention center made that obvious the minute we got within half a mile.
I recognized Chief Ezra Collig, head of the Bayport Police Department, directing his officers to positions at key intersections. And there was our dad, standing right next to him.
“Yo, Frank,” I said into his ear, “let’s take a detour.”
He nodded in agreement, and we took a left, heading down to the bay before veering around the other side of the half-mile-long building. Neither one of us wanted to have to explain to the chief what we were doing there. I figured he’d spot us eventually, but I hoped we’d be well along in our investigation by that time.
The chief knows about our involvement with ATAC, and he’s usually pretty good about helping us. But when it came to something as big as this show—and on his own turf, no less—we both knew he wouldn’t want to let us anywhere near the convention center. He’d probably get annoyed that ATAC didn’t ask his permission before assigning us to the case.
But I understood why they wouldn’t. These were big organized crime groups we were talking about. Big enough to have a man on the inside of a local security operation, or even the police force.
Frank and I parked his bike at the nearby marina and ran up the front steps of the convention center. In the lobby, we walked over to the information booth. “We’re looking for the head of security,” I said.
She looked me and Frank up and down, giving us the once-over. “That would be Mr. Harris,” she said, nodding over to the far end of the gigantic, glass-walled lobby, where a tall, thin man with a lion’s mane of white hair was barking orders into a walkie-talkie.
We headed in his direction. “Are you Mr. Harris?” Frank asked him.
“That’s me. And you are?”
“Frank Hardy, sir. And this is my brother, Joe.”
“Ah, yes . . . we’ve been expecting you,” he said, shaking our hands. “You’re the ones who are going to be keeping an eye on our models, eh? Lucky fellows. Well, let me give you the tour of our operations—starting with the control room. Follow me, please.”
He led us to a private elevator, and we rode up to a glass-walled enclosure overlooking the lobby on one side, and the main hall of the convention center on the other. In the middle of the control room was a bank of monitors, showing live pictures of every corner of the center, inside and out, in quick succession.
“Every one of these monitors will be manned from two o’clock this afternoon on,” he said. “There’s no way anyone will be able to approach the merchandise without our knowing about it.”
“How many cameras in all?” Frank asked.
&nbs
p; “Seventy-two,” said Harris. “And that’s just to cover the inside. There are another sixty mounted on trucks outside the building.”
“Very impressive,” I said.
“Oh, that’s just the start of it,” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest.” He walked up to one of the glass walls and placed his palm on a heat-sensitive ceramic pad. Lights flashed green, and a sliding panel opened to reveal a secure hallway. “This way, boys.”
The hallway led us above the main hall, which we could see through the glass floor of the corridor as well as through the walls. “It’s all one-way glass,” Harris said proudly. “Everything here is the last word in secure design. When you want to attract the biggest, most expensive shows, you can’t offer anything less.”
We reached another door, with another ceramic panel. Once again, he placed his palm against it, and it opened to reveal yet another elevator. We rode this one down, right past the floor of the main hall and into the basement.
“Now I’ll show you where the gems will be brought in and kept until it’s time for them to be shown off.”
We followed him down a long corridor, turning left, then right, then left again. Noticing air shafts along the ceiling, I cleared my throat, pointing upward. “Um, what about those, sir?”
“Very observant,” said Harris. “Don’t worry, the police have those covered at all access points.”
I nodded, but once his eyes were off me, I shot Frank a worried glance and saw that he wasn’t convinced either. If this was the mob we were talking about, they had ways to get around even the most airtight security systems.
We came to another door, with another ceramic identification panel. On the other side of this door was a large hall with a high, airy ceiling, with natural light pouring in through thick glass-brick skylights.
In the middle of the hall were a number of pedestals with glass boxes on top. The boxes were empty, but I could tell they wouldn’t be for long.
Standing in front of one of the boxes was a brown-haired guy wearing a very expensive suit and tie. His yearly manicure bills were probably as much as my dad’s salary. Harris shook his hand, then introduced him to us.
Death and Diamonds Page 2